The cherry fabric of your many forgotten dresses brought out all of Sunny's best colors: the strawberry gold of her hair, the appley green of her eyes, and the peachy pink of her skin. A sugary delight coursed through loving veins as you studied her reflection. This addictive generosity must be how Carla felt each time she dressed you in her more expensive fabrics.
"Do you think it's too much for a garden party?" Sunny asked you in the mirror.
"If you want to wear that boring, dusty, pink frock you packed, be my guest. But you'll wear this if you want to look like a woman," you replied.
"And you don't mind that I'm borrowing it? It's just so beautiful. I feel terrible knowing I'm wearing it before you've ever had the chance."
"Dresses are meant to be worn, Sunshine." You placed your hands on her shoulders, looming behind her beautiful blaze as a shadow. "And I've decided that this dress was meant to be worn by you. So, sit and let me work."
Sunny plopped down on your sewing bench as you brushed the silky tresses flowing over her exposed shoulder blades. You were sure to leave a few tendrils to frame her round face as you twisted the sides towards the nape of her neck.
Lucy, who had been meowing at your feet the last half hour, finally hopped onto the younger girl's lap and pawed at her borrowed fabric.
"She likes you," you said. "It's funny how she's sweet on every girl she meets but hit-or-miss with the men."
"She must be a good judge of character." Sunny picked up the little kitten and nuzzled her nose. "Aren't you, my little love? Do you want to come to the Reiss' garden party with me? You'd be the best-behaved babe there."
"If you think Mr. Kirstein would let his little girl go anywhere without him, you're sadly mistaken. You're lucky he even let her wander upstairs without tailing her the whole way up."
Sunny giggled. "It's not like he could come up here with me changing. It'd be a real scandal if he did."
Reaching for the table, you grasped some hairpins and stuck eight in your mouth. You pulled one out and carefully fastened Sunny's low bun to her head. Her hair needed to look effortlessly perfect to match the flowing red fabric's little glimmers. Not one pin would be misplaced; not a single strand would slip.
"I wish you'd come with us," Sunny mumbled as you tucked the last pin. "Not that I don't adore Hitch, but I'm so much closer to you. And it could be fun. Watching Ymir stomp around, giving all the crotchety, old men a piece of her mind while Historia apologizes to each of them through giggles. I love watching them ruin things. From a safe distance, of course."
"But you know how I feel about those dry parties. All that temperance nonsense Mr. Reiss spouts gives me a migraine. You couldn't pay me enough to spend a night with him without a few glasses of wine. And did you hear about him trying to remove Zeke's liquor license at the January assembly meeting?"
"No! Why would he do that?"
"Because he's one of those crotchety, old men Ymir hates so much."
Little footsteps pounded up the stairs, and knocks rang from the shut door.
"Sunny! Miss Hitch is here, and she's getting tetchy!" Martin yelled.
Sunny carefully placed Lucy on the floor and stood up to face you. "How do I look?" she asked.
As she spun in slow circles, just like you always did for Carla, the dress spiraled so spectacularly in the sunlight. She burned with all the beauty of a roaring fire. You might have even shed a tear if you weren't so emotionally restricted.
Your answer came quickly. "Beautiful. It's hard to believe you're all finally all grown up."
Sunny squealed and wrapped her arms around you. "Thank you! You're the best sister a girl could ask for."
"God, you make me feel old," you mumbled over her shoulder. "Get out of here before Hitch beats down the door and deafens me with her yipping. Then, I'd feel even older."
Sunny gave one last smile before bolting from the room. As you watched your dress float in the air with her, you couldn't think of a better girl to wear it. Mrs. Springer would be pleased to see her daughter return with not one but two free dresses from your archives.
After putting away the beauty tools, you headed to the front door, hoping you had enough time to wave the coach off. You barely caught the carriage starting to roll down the road, with Hitch sticking her tongue out at you from the window. Marlowe waited behind, waving over his wife's shoulder.
You sent a silly face and a raised hand right back as dust clouded the air, only to flee inside when the air grew too hot, and your stomach growled too loud.
Unlike Sunny, you lacked the luxury of attending beautifully catered parties fully stocked with mountains of meat and pastries.
But one of the best parts about having a well-studied chef as an adoptive father was that you had access to more culinary knowledge than the average New Yorker. While everyone in town, except those visiting the Reiss' party, was eating the same dry corned beef hash, mostly burned fried fish, or bland boiled potatoes each afternoon, you enjoyed spoils from far-off lands in the comfort of your quiet, American home.
So, as you cracked your eggs into a deep well of flour, you considered the best uses for the garden's bountiful harvest. Some of the tomatoes appeared ripe enough for picking a few days ago. Niccolo's basil bush was lush with leaves and free of flowers. The garlic in the cellar would act as a delicious complement, as would the onions on the shelf beside them. There was also a loaf that would be too hard to eat in a few days.
Little hands wrinkled your skirt as you kneaded new dough.
"Y/n? It's so hot. Can we go swimming today?" Martin asked.
"Yes, but I should feed you first," you told him. "Would you like to help me make a little pasta?"
"Oh, yes!"
From there, Martin assisted you in every step. You taught him how to knead and explained the importance of letting the dough rest. When harvesting from the garden while the dough chilled in the cellar, you showed him which tomatoes were ripe and which were not. You let him oversee picking the basil, as it was hard for him to make a mistake. He mostly picked perfectly fragrant leaves, save a few aphid-chewed pickings.
You pulled a dining room chair to the counter for Martin to stand on as you taught him Niccolo's secret way of scoring and slicing onions. You were very clear that he should never touch a knife without supervision, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn the process early.
Martin might run his mouth often but was a wonderfully quiet sous chef.
You left him alone in the kitchen for no more than two minutes to fetch dough once it had sat for over an hour. Walking back up the cellar steps, you heard a loud yelp and a clatter. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you flew back up to find Martin wincing in his chair. You hustled to him to see your knife tossed to the side and a little plume of red pooling on the tip of his thumb.
"Ow!" Martin cried as you took his hand. "I was just trying to make the onion smaller! I just wanted to help!"
"Martin, I told you not to touch... to touch..."
Your head felt light as you watched the little blood bead grow larger. The cut wasn't deep. It would stop bleeding in a minute. But that didn't prevent your mind from fogging.
"Oh, God. Dr. Yeager! Come quickly!"
"Take her out, Sasha."
"Come on, Y/n."
"I can't. I can't leave him. He's scared. You can help him, can't you, Dr. Yeager? You have to help my father. You have to. Please."
"I'm sorry, Y/n. I just wanted to help." Martin started to tear up. "Please, don't be mad at me! I just wanted to help!"
His tears turned to rivers on his cheeks. Those rivers were sufficient in flooding your mind with thoughts of reality. Tearing your vision from his bloody fingertip, you reached for a rag and squeezed it around his thumb.
"I'm not mad. You just can't fool around with knives, remember?" you said softly. "When you're older, you can slice all you want with your mother. Until then, leave it to the adults."
Martin sniffled. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to help."
"Don't be sorry. You just had a little accident, alright? So don't be sorry. It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong."
"It's all my fault. I killed him. I'm the reason he got sick."
"Don't say that. Don't ever blame yourself. You did nothing wrong."
"You did nothing wrong," you whispered.
But your words were not for Martin. At that moment, they were for you from beyond the grave.
"You did nothing wrong," you repeated.
"... Can I still help you cook?" Martin asked.
"Of course, Marty. Always."
More than anything, you needed to clear your mind of whispers before Mr. Kirstein came in for lunch. Should he notice your unease, he would question it, just as he had the other night.
You had been fortunate thus far that Mr. Kirstein locked himself in the cabin after breakfast. Due to the nearing deadline of Niccolo's birthday present, he chose to spend his time with the canvas and paints. However, based on yesterday's litany of little misfortunes, you knew your luck reserves had dried up. At any moment, Mr. Kirstein would come bursting through the door, ravenous for food and human interaction.
And you wouldn't ruin Martin's mood by allowing him room to feel responsible for the storm clouding your eyes.
"It's all my fault. It's all my fault, Sasha."
Guilt was a weight no child should bear. But you could.
You squeezed your eyes so tightly that your eardrums rumbled. That was the quickest way to cleanse unwanted thoughts when cedar did not smoke, but you needed more to shake off the pain.
Cooking always brought great comfort. The endless stream of tasks kept your mind busy when you required a distraction or redirection. You would never be as skilled as Niccolo, but you didn't need to be—you just needed something to do.
Martin remained on his best behavior as you diced the tomatoes and split them into two piles. The first would be cooked in olive oil with garlic, balsamic vinegar, dried parsley, thyme, rosemary, and oregano and melded with the pasta. The second would be mixed with the onion, garlic, vinegar, and fresh basil to top the old bread you had yet to slice and stick in the oven.
When you rolled out the pasta dough as thin as paper, wrapped it over itself, and sliced each piece as thin as possible, most of your memories had dispelled. Stress no longer tugged on your eyes, and the exercise from laboring with the rolling pin had sent blood to your cheeks.
Your bread was fresh out of the oven, your tomato sauce combined with the pasta, and your bruschetta rested in its bowl. All you had left was to fill the plates, and lunch was served.
"Martin, run to the cabin and fetch Mr. Kirstein while I put on the finishing touches."
Martin smacked his little hand against his forehead in a salute. "Yes, chef!" he cried before running out the back door.
You prepared three plates, and when you finished, you rushed off to the parlor to check yourself in the mirror.
How had Mr. Kirstein figured out you were upset last time around? 'Grayness' was the word he used to describe your face when he knew you were on the verge of tears, but all you saw were lively cheeks.
And messy hair. And a sweaty upper lip. And... was that the starting of a unibrow?
You released your hair from its usual braid and smoothed out any frizzy flyaways, wiped the wetness from your skin with sleeve fabric, and dug in between your eyes to rip that pesky hair from your brow.
"Y/n! I got Jeanie! Time for lunch!" Martin screamed from the dining room. "Where'd she go? She was just here! Y/n!"
"Give me one second! I'll be right over!" You kept pinching at that barely visible hair like your life depended on it.
Have you looked like this for the last few days? Had Mr. Kirstein noticed your hairiness and said nothing? Sunny would have said something if she had seen it. Wouldn't she have? You knew Hitch would, but she didn't comment yesterday. Martin, too. The little boy informed everyone when he saw a stain on their shirt or sweat graying their pits.
With each pinch of your fingers, that stubborn hair eluded you at every pluck. The clock tick drove spikes into your brain with each failure.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
"Get out, you little–"
The words died in your mouth as honey eyes and dusty hair appeared over your head.
"What are you doing? The food is getting cold," Mr. Kirstein said as he studied your reflection.
"There's... a hair."
Giant hands cupped your shoulders. Mr. Kirstein twisted you around to face him and bent down slightly to inspect the little patch of skin you assaulted. He was so close that you could feel his breath on your nose and lips, scrutinizing that ugly patch on your frozen face.
Mr. Kirstein's lips felt even closer, so you scrutinized them, too, so as to not feel left out in the judgment. Whenever you looked at Eren's lips, he always had a minor chap marring their smoothness. Zeke had a similar affliction—neither Yeager boy put effort into keeping their skin soft and moisturized as they did not see its usefulness.
But Mr. Kirstein's lips looked smoother than butter and fuller than a heavily poured glass of red wine. The longer he studied your face, the closer you felt those lips inch to yours.
"You made this hair up in your mind," he said, leaving the room as if nothing had happened.
Was he utterly unaffected by the proximity of your faces? You were having a slight heart attack at the thought of his face getting any nearer, but Mr. Kirstein was unphased.
Any closer, and he would have kissed the bridge of your nose.
You eventually followed him to the dining room after regaining your breath, sucking your lips inwards as you went. Your lips felt too coarse to kiss anyone when you rubbed them together. You couldn't believe that a man like him would have softer lips than you, but it seemed you were wrong. You'd been wrong about him several times.
What were you even thinking? Maybe you should look at Martin's thumb again and let bad memories fill your thoughts. That would be better than picturing Mr. Kirstein's lips over and over.
No, that was a horrible idea. Really, what were you thinking? A little blood and a man standing a few inches away was all it took for you to lose your mind.
You sat down at the head of the table, and Mr. Kirstein stole Sunny's usual seat to your left. You wished he wouldn't sit so close but would not ask him to stand up and move next to Martin.
That would be rude.
The two boys ate quietly while you pushed your food around. Your appetite was tossed out into the trash from your earlier queasiness at the sight of Martin's chopped finger as it mixed with the sensation of hot air on your face.
"You don't like it, Y/n?" Martin asked. "I think this is the best food I've ever had! Right, Jeanie!"
"It is good for what it is," Mr. Kirstein replied.
Good for what it is? What the hell did that mean? Suddenly, your cheeks felt cold again.
"You don't like it?" you asked.
"Did I say that?" Mr. Kirstein shot back.
"You implied it."
"You have a very imaginative mind. First, you conjure fake hairs. Now you put words in my mouth." Mr. Kirstein picked up one of his pieces of bread and crushed it between his teeth. You watched him chew; eyes focused on his lips. When he finally swallowed, he said, "It is good."
"Just good? Not great?"
"It is fine."
"So now it is just fine?" you scoffed. "Typically, in America, when someone goes out of their way to make you a nice meal, you offer a polite, 'thank you.' Perhaps it's different in France and England, but that's how it's done here."
Mr. Kirstein eyed you from the side. "You would prefer I lie? If the food is good, I say it is good. If it is not, I will tell you. But I have sampled real pasta made by a real Italian mother. No matter how hard you try, no one will ever beat that. That is great. This is good."
You should stay at her house for the summer. You can sneak through her hallways, call her crazy, and say she's a lousy cook. I'm sure she'd love to have you!"
Mr. Kirstein was easy to hate when you needed to hate him. With his nonstop complaining and little digs at your expense, he opened himself up for so much loathing. Breathing disgusting, hot air on your face, calling you crazy, saying your cooking was garbage.
But when you noticed how hard he gripped his fork at your selfish outburst, you regretted the blind fury.
"I'm sorry," you whispered. "That was out of turn."
Martin shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and said, "You fight like mommy and daddy." Then, his face sparked with a brilliant idea. "I know! You should make up like them! They go to their room, lock the door, wrestle for a few hours, and it's all better!"
"Wrestle," Mr. Kirstein said, his voice constricted. Tenseness hardened his face. A smile forced its way onto his lips for the little boy, but it never reached his eyes. "I hate to tell you this, but your mother and father are not wrestling."
So, Mr. Kirstein was not as open as he had previously made himself out to be. He had his secrets, just like you, and this 'Italian mother' was one of them.
Was she a lover swept up by another man? Or a family friend he was no longer in communication with? Had she passed?
It was no use wondering about it, as you had already pierced him more deeply than you initially realized. His wound leaked with fake smiles and tightly gripped forks. Making up scenarios to explain his reaction would not make you less of an ass.
You were the sole transgressor in this interaction. You made a mountain over semantics for no reason but to feed your pridefulness. It didn't help that you had been set off earlier with your intrusive thoughts, making you quicker to anger. And that was just yet another excuse.
Did it feel good to act so dickish?
No. It didn't.
You had evened the scores yesterday, and now they were tipped in his favor. And for what? So, he would tell you your food was delicious? What good would that do you in the long run?
"I'm sorry," you said again. "I truly am."
Mr. Kirstein fixed his eyes on his half-empty plate. "It is fine. You did nothing wrong."
You did nothing wrong. You swore you felt Sasha's hand stroking your hair as the words repeated. You did nothing wrong.
"Can we go swimming now?" Martin asked. "My plate's all clear!"
"Yes. I think that's a wonderful idea," you said, pushing your untouched pasta to the center of the table.
For all you knew, it could be the most disgusting thing ever cooked in all of history. You would never know any better. You would never taste it.
"You'll come, too. Won't you, Jeanie?"
"Of course. You should both go. I will clean this."
But as you left the painter alone at the table, he made no moves to clean anything. He just stared at his plate until you could no longer stand to look at him.
* * *
Mr. Kirstein was a fabulous fraud.
The longer he splashed with Martin in the water, the wider his fake smile stretched. His eyes even crinkled as he threw the little boy into deeper water for the tenth time, only for Martin to swim back and ask to be tossed again.
Or maybe he was happy. Was that so hard to believe? Perhaps you just wanted to paint him as a martyr that you had nailed to a cross.
You sat from your place on the dock, dipping only your toes in the calm lake. You watched the merriment unfold but refused to partake. That was your penance–abstaining from a favorite pastime as punishment.
"Come on, Y/n! Come play with us!" Martin called. "You look so lonely over there!"
"I'm alright, Marty. Keep playing."
Mr. Kirstein turned to see you, his white shirt clinging to his massive frame for dear life. You glanced away first. That would be another punishment; you couldn't look at him. As sloshing grew closer, you had no choice but to acknowledge him sludging in your direction.
Mr. Kirstein stood before you, water swallowing him at the knees with his hands planted firmly on his hips. He stuck his arms out to you with palms wide open and said, "Give me your hands."
"What?"
"Give me your hands. I will not tell you a third time."
Slowly, you extended your arms, and he grabbed your wrists with the softness of sheep's wool. However, his gentleness was short-lived as he yanked your backside off the dock to join him in the lake.
"My dress!"
Mr. Kirstein snickered at your expense. "Now, you will not have to wash it this week. You can thank me for lightening your load. And now you will go swimming. No more martyrdom for you."
"Martyrdom? I wasn't–"
"Yes, you were. Follow me and stop sitting alone with that miserable mask. It does not suit your face."
Once he dropped your wrists and strode away, you replayed your thoughts. He was right–you played the victim with your self-imposed isolation. In your stupid attempt to demonize yourself, you had also secretly wallowed in your self-pity. How embarrassing that Mr. Kirstein could see it and you could not.
You needed to join him to erase your childish behavior, but you didn't do as he instructed immediately. Instead, you gathered the skirt upwards and pulled it over your head, exposing a white chemise and powder-blue corset to the open air. You tossed the heavy, black fabric onto the dock beside Mr. Kirstein's suit vest so your skirt could dry in the sun. From the knee down, your legs were completely exposed.
"Y/n! You're almost naked!" Martin laughed ahead of you.
Mr. Kirstein froze dead in his tracks. He whipped his head around, and his hands immediately flew to cover his eyes. Thick fingers slightly split on his right hand, exposing a sliver of his hot honey before snapping shut again.
"Oh là là!" Mr. Kirstein yelled in horror. "What are you doing?! Put your clothes back on!"
"You can't expect me to swim in such heavy fabrics," you replied as you trudged out to join them.
"And you cannot expect me to swim with you if you... dance around in that flimsy excuse for a dress!"
You thrust your hand down into the water, curved your fingers into a cup, and sent a big splash his way. Seeing Mr. Kirstein so flustered brought some lightness back into your steps.
"It's just skin and meat. Think of me like a chicken if it makes it easier to contain your urges."
"Do not splash me!" Mr. Kirstein yelled.
He flinched, but it was too late. Martin splashed him, too. Mr. Kirstein was getting soaked from both directions. You started laughing the more water you flicked through the air. He still shielded his eyes with one massive hand but used the other to return your aquatic assaults.
Mr. Kirstein successfully soaked your undergarments with only two swipes until bare skin bleed through. Martin swam closer and attempted to climb up his back to halt his attacks. Unfortunately, Mr. Kirstein protected himself by giving Martin another toss out into the lake.
Martin's little body made a huge splash, and he bobbed right back up, coughing with such intensity that your soul sank to the bottom of the lake. You immediately pumped your feet to try and reach the struggling child. Martin's coughs were replaced with Father's death rattles that haunted your memories, and you wrestled with your mind and the lake.
"Shit," Mr. Kirstein whispered. He was much faster than you when rescuing Martin out in deeper water. He yanked Martin's dripping body upward, held him tightly in one of his big arms, and patted Martin's back to knock the water from his lungs.
"Martin! Are you alright?" you asked when you shook off the nightmares and reached the duo. "Can you breathe?"
"I–" he coughed again. "I think I need to go sit down on the dock."
"Give him to me," you told Mr. Kirstein. He shifted Martin into your arms. You rubbed his spine as you clutched onto him tight enough to leave indents in his skin as you carried him to the dock. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have started that. I was just trying to have a little fun."
"It's okay, but you and Jeanie have to keep playing." Another cough escaped Martin's throat. "You're both happier when you spend time together."
"No, I'm going to sit with you until you're–"
Martin pushed off your chest and looked you square in the face. "You have to keep playing. Do it for me because I can't. Please?" His soulful eyes pleaded with you to go out and have fun, even if it was without him.
"I can't. I can't leave him. He's scared."
"Please, Y/n," Martin said again. "Please keep playing. I'll be okay in a little bit, and then I can play, too!"
You finally relented when you sat him down on the wood planks, sighing deeply. "Fine. But only for a little bit. After that, I'm coming back to check on you."
"Go wrestle him in the water! Jeanie will like that! My daddy always likes when—"
"There will be no wrestling."
You gave his wet hair a soft ruffle and drifted back towards the lake's center. No matter how badly you wanted to stay with him until you were entirely sure he'd knocked all the water from his body, Martin gave you an explicit order.
Mr. Kirstein nervously waited for you to be within earshot.
"Is he alright?" he asked.
"He's fine."
"I am sorry. If I had known he would swallow the water, I never would have–"
"I already told you. He's alright." Both you and Mr. Kirstein needed convincing that all would be well. "Children are often more resilient than we give them credit for. He was well enough to demand we keep swimming." You paused, contemplating your following little tidbit. "He also said we should 'wrestle,' so I think he's already recovered emotionally from his near-death experience."
"Wrestle?" Mr. Kirstein's shoulders relaxed as he let out a puff. "That boy... he says ridiculous things. Do you remember yesterday with the... sex question?"
"Don't remind me. I was absolutely mortified. Hitch was being herself and talked about naughty things at the breakfast table."
Mr. Kirstein snickered. "For a woman with such a rich lifestyle, one would think she would act more refined."
"You can wash a girl to make her less filthy, but you can never scrub away the dirtiness from her mind. Hitch is no exception."
Cicadas and birds filled the silence you shared with Mr. Kirstein. You stood side-by-side, both taking in the golden, the lake's shimmering glare. There was a beautiful comfort to the lull. You felt far less weighted in the spirits by just splitting the space.
Mr. Kirstein cleared his throat after a long pause. Perhaps he did not enjoy the silence as much as you did.
"Do you plan on swimming?" he asked.
"I don't think so. I told Martin I would, but then I'd have to dry my hair and change clothes."
"Your tiny dress is already wet. You should enjoy the coolness while you are here.
"I am enjoying it." You laughed. "I can enjoy things without diving all the way in. One drowning is enough for today."
"No." Mr. Kirstein firmly stated as he stepped towards you. "I have decided you are going to swim."
"What do you mean you decided?"
"I am going to throw you in. Be sure to hold your breath."
Your whole body tensed. When you saw the seriousness in Mr. Kirstein's smirk, fleeing was the only option.
You tried to rush back to shore, but Mr. Kirstein grabbed your arm before you could get far enough away. He pulled you into his wet muscles, wrapped his arm around your back, and picked up the back of your knees. Mr. Kirstein was a groom, snuggling you against his chest like a bride being carried to her marriage bed. He walked you further into the lake, trapping your squirming extremities so you couldn't fight him. The deeper he went, the harder he had to pump his legs to go anywhere.
"No! Please!" you begged, laughter breaking up your words. "You're going to ruin my hair!"
"The point of swimming is to swim, so that is what you will do. I refuse to let you dip just your legs like an old woman."
"I'm sorry, alright! Please, don't throw me!" Your laughter colored your cries, but they had fallen on deaf ears.
"Too late, ma petite sirène. Bon voyage."
Mr. Kirstein gave you a decisive toss outward. You screamed and flailed, soaring like a bird through the summer breeze. You traveled a few feet before you were submerged in the water face-first.
The lake sucked you in like an old friend pulling you into a wet embrace. Wetness felt good as it chilled your skin and bones.
When you stood up, the waterline reached your clavicle, and all your hair shrouded your face like a veil. Mr. Kirstein's chuckles carried through the open air like a sweet melody as you parted your saturated curtains to see him.
He rolled his head back with his hands on his sides. His cheeks were pinker than sand in a sunset, and his wet hair dripped onto his forehead and nose, obscuring parts of his eyes from view. His white shirt was transparent against his body, exposing his toned muscles through the sheer fabric. His eyes crinkled when they finally opened again; his broad smile pointed directly at you.
Mr. Kirstein was happy. Unabashedly happy. It was like meeting him for the first time.
Someone else's happiness had never filled your heart with such splendor. Any remaining guilt washed into the waves and sank into the rocks and dirt.
"Look! I have drowned the witch! Your stupid town will hail me as a hero!" Mr. Kirstein yelled. He fell back into the water, the waves rocking against his chin.
"That is so mean!" You splashed at his face. He sprayed right back with a jet much sharper than yours.
As the rougher ripples petered out, you got a better look at your current state in the watered glass. Hair stuck to your face like strands of seaweed. Eyes were barely visible behind the small window you created. You didn't look as horrible as he claimed, but you could ham it up for some extra laughs.
An exaggerated gasp escaped your lips, "I do look like a sea witch! Is this what the town has been talking about all these years?! No wonder I'm a pariah! Why did you never tell me, Martin!? "
"I think you're pretty, Y/n!" Martin tried to comfort you from afar while Mr. Kirstein nodded with raised brows—a closed smile barely hiding his teeth.
You flipped your head forward to flip it backward again, launching the seaweed from your face. Water shot out behind you, sending marbles in an arc over your figure. A few self-made raindrops smacked the top of your head when they fell back down.
After staggering through the lake, you extended a hand to pull Mr. Kirstein from his low position. He accepted your helpful gesture and rose to his feet. His hand's warmth felt so welcoming as it swallowed your icy fingertips. Mr. Kirstein's eyes lowered to your mouth; his gaze cloaked in wet shadows. Although the air was so warm, your teeth chattered.
"Your lips. They look cold," he mumbled.
Mr. Kirstein stood no more than a foot in front of you. You lingered in what was now a tension-filled silence.
When was the last time you took a breath?
You slipped from his grip and started straggling back to shore without him, unable to maintain eye contact for another second. "Well, that happens when you throw someone in the water without a warning. If I catch a cold, it'll be on your head!"
You made sure to fill your tone with silliness, but that didn't stop a deep sigh, followed by a thunderous splash behind you. You turned to see the massive waves from Mr. Kirstein falling back, disappearing under the water. His face bobbed back to the surface. All his long hair remained slicked back from his chiseled face. He spat some water that had filled his mouth like a fountain, launching some minor frustration he carried into the sky.
Smiling, you waded back to Martin. Your thumb slowly crawled to your bottom lip, rubbing the sensitive skin that had captured your painter's attention seconds ago. He was right; they were cold.
"Did you swallow water, too?" Martin asked you when you threw yourself up to sit beside him.
"No. I told you before that I'd only play for a bit," you said.
You and Martin sat on the dock for an hour and a half, allowing the sky to soak your clothes in the sunshine. Eventually, Mr. Kirstein joined you while Martin told nonsensical stories about the most outlandish things. His first story was about the magical gnome, Mr. Levi, who was sent from an enchanted forest to punish little kids for not learning their alphabet fast enough. The next was about how Marlowe was the Frog Prince from one of his story books, and his hair was cut so funnily because Hitch didn't kiss him hard enough. The third was about how his big brother's hair turned gray prematurely because he was a warlock, and one of his spells backfired.
You added little questions and comments to his stories, and Mr. Kirstein stretched over the wood quietly on Martin's other side.
"And you're a princess from Paris," Martin said when he finished his last story.
"A princess from Paris?" you asked with a smile. "So, you've finally discovered my big secret, huh? Who told you? Eren? I swore him to secrecy years ago. Perhaps he should kneel before the guillotine to learn a lesson in fealty."
"No. Jeanie told me when we were stick-fighting." The wood planks beside him creaked loudly as Mr. Kirstein shot up from his resting position. "That's why he wanted you to ki–"
A giant hand appeared over Martin's little face before the boy could finish his thought.
"That is enough out of you," Mr. Kirstein said. "Le soleil a tué ton cerveau."
You reached over, peeled Mr. Kirstein's hand off Martin's face, and held tight to your painter's rough fingertips. "Let the child speak. I want to hear what he has to say."
"That is not–"
"Jeanie said he wanted you to kiss him back to life because you were a princess from Paris!" Martin blurted out before Mr. Kirstein could finish.
"Oh," you muttered, still clutching Mr. Kirstein's fingers.
For the first time today, your head was empty.
"No!" Mr. Kirstein cried. "See, he says ridiculous things! I would never do that!"
I would never do that. You dropped the hand. Mr. Kirstein's words stung worse than a bee sting.
"Am I that ugly to you?" you asked pointedly.
"No! No, no, no, no. No. I meant to say... It was a joke!" Mr. Kirstein laughed awkwardly. "We were playing make-believe! I... I would never trick you into a kiss. I... I... I would never kiss a woman without her permission... or full knowledge!"
So now kissing you was a joke to him? As you watched his eyes dart around the lakefront with his jaw hanging, you bit your cheek to keep your tongue from spitting venom. After your earlier outburst, you didn't want to further put marks against yourself and say something hurtful that you would only regret later.
"Maybe I should head inside," you said a little too harshly, picking yourself up off the dock. "Dinner won't prepare itself."
You left the two boys in your whitecapped wake. Even over your whistling ears from red-hot embarrassment, you heard the beginnings of their hushed conversation.
"Now, look at what you have done. She is angry with me again."
"Don't blame me! You lied! My mommy would spank you for lying like that."
After drying off and coming inside for dinner, Mr. Kirstein genuinely tried to keep you from lifting a finger. He plated and cleared the dining room table, washed the dishes, and even put Martin to sleep so that you could take some time to yourself.
There was a consistent pattern with the eternally troublesome guest. He would say something to frustrate you, then perform a handful of helpful actions to offset his blatant rudeness.
You would prefer he learn to keep his thoughts to himself, but his little atonements were still greatly appreciated. You had your own atoning to do. Mr. Kirstein's shaking hand, wrapped around his fork, still poked at your heart.
Sincere apologies were never your strong suit. You had a nasty habit of apologizing and then explaining to the other person what they had done to deserve your wrath or attempting to excuse your behavior with some half-assed reasoning. You could rarely just offer an admission of your wrongfulness without trying to justify it in some way, shape, or form.
Today, you would try to break that habit.
Steps creaked through the house, and Mr. Kirstein appeared not long after in the kitchen where you waited for him.
"Martin's asleep?"
"Yes," he confirmed with a tense smile. "I told him he must not leave his bed. You should sleep peacefully tonight."
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
Mr. Kirstein nodded and looked nervously around the room. "Well... Sleep well."
He moved to the backdoor and swung it open far faster than you expected. If you didn't catch him now, you'd have to wait to speak with him in the morning.
"Mr. Kirstein?" you croaked out before he could disappear entirely, and you lost the chance to make your feelings known. "Would you mind staying to chat for a moment?"
Mr. Kirstein loosened his hand on the doorknob.
"Of course."
You stared down at the kitchen floor. "I just wanted to apologize for my behavior. I shouldn't have upset you at lunch or made you feel guilty by the lake. It was immature of me, and..." You met his softened eyes. "I sincerely apologize for any bad feelings I caused you today. When we weren't arguing... I enjoyed your company today."
Honeyed eyes blinked, utterly dumbfounded, for several seconds. Mr. Kirstein opened his mouth to speak. The words were slow to slip from between his teeth.
"I am the one who should apologize. I think... I-I would say... You..." Mr. Kirstein, as usual, wrestled with his English, but he eventually found his voice. "Any man would be very fortunate to kiss you, and you are not ugly. I am sorry if I made you think otherwise since we met. And your food... It was very good. Truly."
You smiled slightly and tried to joke. "Just 'very good?'"
Mr. Kirstein relaxed and rolled his eyes as he took a few steps closer to you with each passing word. "For an American who has never had the treat of visiting Italia? Your pasta was perfect."
"Perfect?"
"Perfect," he repeated, much softer this time. He stood inches from you again, just like earlier. His eyes flicked between your own and your lips several times as the silence and his musk engulfed your senses. "May I ask something of you?"
"Depends on what it is," you breathed as you flicked between his features.
His throat clenched as his tongue swiped against his full, soft lips. "May I... Would you mind if I... I should not ask this, but may I—"
The front door screeched open loudly, breaking the tension binding you and Mr. Kirstein tightly together.
"Y/n!" Sunny called with rosy giggles dyeing her animated speech. "Are you still up? You must hear about everything that happened tonight! It was so funny! Ymir threw a cake in some poor man's face for calling Historia beautiful!"
Sunny's laugh reverberated through the house, but you ignored her to face the flustered man before you. "What were you saying?"
"Nothing. Forget it," he mumbled. "You should entertain her, and I should sleep. I am not thinking clearly."
He attempted to retreat out the back door, but something took hold of your brain before he could vanish.
"Mr. Kirstein! Wait!" you called after him, and he froze instantly. You hurried before him and reached for his jaw. Stubble pricked your fingertip like bee stings, but it would not shake your conviction.
Tipping his head downwards so he would be easier to reach, you stood up on your tiptoes. You planted a chaste kiss on the reddening apple of his cheek and whispered, "Thank you for the apology. Although yours was unnecessary, I still accept it. I hope you can accept mine, too."
Before you could cross any more boundaries, you scurried off to the parlor to intercept Sunny before she walked in on that secret, intimate gesture.
"Ses lèvres sont encore plus douces que dans mes rêves," you heard him as you slipped out of the kitchen.
You swiped your thumb against your mouth, silently hoping both were soft enough to give him at least one pleasurable memory of your skin.
Mr. Kirstein had left a pleasant memory of his.
French Translation:
Oh là là! = A French noise used to show surprise, disgust, or displeasure
ma petite sirène = My little mermaid
Bon Voyage = Safe travels
Le soleil a tué ton cerveau = The sun has killed your brain
Ses lèvres sont encore plus douces que dans mes rêves = Her lips are even softer than in my dreams
Author's Note: I'm posting this six hours before I have to wake up and leave for a little cabin vacation, and my eyes are on fire trying to edit this, so I'm sorry if there are mistakes lol. I may or may not have rushed this chapter a little so that I didn't have a massive gap between posts. I'll be internetless and with family for the next week, so the next chapter might be delayed. Whoops.
I'm also moving next month, so idk what's gonna happen to my posting schedule, BUT I do have like 30,000 words worth of ideas for future chapters, so it's not all that bad :)